Crescent Moon

by Lori Handeland

  “Ruelle means famous wolf.”

  “Just like Diana means moon goddess.” He tilted his head, and his hair slid across one eye. “Maybe I should wonder about you and the silver, hmm?”

  He picked up the knife, and a flicker of fear raced through me. Why in hell had I put the thing down?

  “Come here.” He beckoned with the blade.

  I shook my head and backed away.

  “Never run, cher. Wolves like to chase.”

  “This isn’t funny, Adam.”

  He wasn’t laughing. Neither was I. But we were both breathing pretty hard. A lot of eye contact.

  Stalk. Retreat.

  My shoulders hit the wall. His lips lifted just a little. I wasn’t sure if I was scared spitless or aroused beyond redemption. Maybe both.

  He stepped in close, crowding me with his body, bumping me with his erection. I couldn’t move. Did I want to?

  For an instant I struggled, but that only made us fit together even better. I was more rubbing than fighting against him. When I stilled, so did he.

  “Don’t,” I whispered.

  His gaze on my breasts, which strained against the tank top I’d worn to offset the heat, he lifted his eyes to mine as he lowered the knife to the neck of the shirt. With a deft movement he split the material. The cotton fell away, hanging uselessly from my shoulders as damp air trickled across my chest. My nipples puckered inside my plain white bra.

  “Don’t what?” he murmured, pressing the cool silver blade to my heated skin.

  “Stop.”

  “Is it don’t?” He lifted the knife, careful not to nick me, and caught the tip in the wisp of material holding the two A cups together. “Or is it stop?”

  He was very good with the weapon. He’d no doubt had secret commando training, though I doubted he’d ever used a knife in quite this way. Then again, maybe he had. Maybe he did this all the time, with all the girls.

  I gave a mental wince at the thought of other women, which was foolish. This was about sex, not love, and that was how we both wanted it.

  I stared into his face, and I saw nothing but a man who desired me as much as I desired him. My suspicions proved groundless, my accusations now seemed foolish.

  “Don’t stop,” I said.

  He flicked the knife and my bra snapped open. If I’d had any breasts to speak of, they’d have whapped him in the chest. As it was, they slid along his bare skin, the sensation better than an ice-cream cone in the middle of July. Both relief and desire, sweetness and sin.

  I wrapped my fingers in his hair tight enough to make him grunt as I tugged his mouth to mine.

  And the knife clattered to the floor.

  Chapter 26

  I expected the usual slam bam without even a “thank you, ma’am,” sex that bordered on rough, a rocketing orgasm. Instead he slowed things down, and I was lost.

  “Come.” He took my hand and pulled me across the floor.

  I followed obediently, drunk on the taste of his mouth, the scent of his skin. I figured we were headed for the couch and that was fine with me, yet when I hesitated halfway across the room, he turned, shaking his head. “Not tonight. Tonight we do this right.”

  We hadn’t been doing it right? Could have fooled me.

  His bed was made, which gave me a start. He didn’t seem the kind of guy who bothered. Then again, from the military corners and the tight white sheets, maybe he couldn’t help himself.

  Just like I couldn’t help myself. Certainly I’d proved he wasn’t an evil soulless beast or the walking undead. But even if he had been, could I have resisted him? I wasn’t sure.

  He climbed onto the bed, never letting go of my hand. Did he think I’d run if he released me? I wouldn’t get far. Even as a man, he could catch me. Especially since I’d let him.

  The line of his pants accented the ripple of muscle across his abdomen. Not a centimeter of excess flesh lapped over the waistband. Reaching out, I traced my thumb along a ridge, and his skin fluttered beneath my touch.

  I wanted to taste him, feel life against my lips, push aside the button, the zipper, and lay claim to what was beneath. I wanted to make amends for doubting him, if not for the knife. What guy wouldn’t appreciate a blow job apology?

  His slacks were worn soft from years of use. The single button popped free with very little encouragement. He watched me through slitted, lazy eyes, though the hardened length of his body revealed a coiled tension, the tangle of his hair hinted at a certain wildness.

  The rumble of his zipper as I tugged it down seemed to fill the room, electrify the air. He continued to watch me without word or movement, except to lift his hips just enough so I could slide the pants down. No underwear lay beneath, only skin. I wanted to learn every line and every curve. Since he didn’t appear to be going anywhere, I indulged myself.

  A light dusting of hair covered his legs, just enough to make them manly, not enough to nudge them toward beast. I trailed my fingernails through the curls, up the inside of his thighs, and he quivered. How far could I go before he lost control?

  My hands roved higher, thumbs skating over the curve where his leg became his hip. He arched, begging me to touch him. I couldn’t deny a need I felt so deeply myself.

  I lowered my head, and my hair spilled over his chest, hiding me from view as I hovered, my breath brushing his pelvis, making him think, Yes, maybe, now, before I pressed my mouth to his belly, let my tongue circle his navel, then trace a moist path downward.

  My breasts cradled his erection. His pulse beat in time with mine. He slid through my cleavage, such that it was, simulating the intimate act. I lowered my head and licked him just once. His body leaped in response.

  Eyes closed, he moved against me, and I lost myself watching his face. The man enjoyed sex. With him, I enjoyed it, too. Not that I hadn’t before, but when love is involved the act is more about mind than body, heart than hands, lips, and tongue. There was something to be said about sex for the sake of sex.

  My nipples tightened, hardening as they brushed his upper thighs. The rhythmic strokes sent a bolt of heat through me. I wanted to lift my body over his, take him deep within. I wanted to ride him until we were both mindless and begging.

  But not yet.

  I inched downward and he let me go, hands sliding over my shoulders, up my neck, across my face. His fingers tangled in my hair as I took him in my mouth. He caressed my scalp with languid strokes, guiding, encouraging, urging me on.

  He lasted a good long while. His control was downright impressive. It became a battle of wills; who would surrender first, him or me? I didn’t plan to lose. I wouldn’t.

  My tongue did things I’d only imagined. I used my teeth where I’d never used them before. Still he didn’t come, didn’t speak, didn’t move anything but his fingers through my hair.

  I grasped him at the hilt, ran my thumb down his length, followed with my tongue, scraped him with my teeth, and his hand finally tightened.

  His face was set, his eyes brighter, lighter than I remembered. As I held his gaze, I licked him, once, twice, three times, swirling softly, then taking him all and suckling hard. He swelled and grew, so close to erupting. I rode him with my mouth, drawing him to the back of my throat, then nearly setting him free.

  “No,” he murmured, the rumble of his voice making my lips tingle, my ears buzz. “Please.”

  I lifted my head and he groaned. I blew on the chilly dampness left by my tongue, and his eyes fluttered closed.

  “Please what?”

  I closed my teeth over his tip, scored the skin just a little. His eyes shot open. I expected something gruff, perhaps crude. But had anything ever been as I expected with him?

  “Take me inside, cher. I want to feel your body all around me.”

  I frowned at the request, too personal, too revealing. I was tempted to finish him off despite any protest. He was too close; a few more strokes, and he’d be able to do nothing but come.

  Though oral sex could be mor
e intimate than anything else, right now it wasn’t. There was a distance between us, a distance I wanted to keep. Why was he trying to breach it?

  His hand still tangled in my hair, his thumb stroked my cheek. My eyes burned, and my chest ached. This was so not a good idea.

  In spite of that, I was captured by his gaze, compelled by his voice, murmuring words in French that I didn’t understand. I did as he wanted, because I wanted it, too, surrounding him, taking him in.

  We moved together as if we’d done this a thousand times. The advance, the retreat, so new and yet so familiar, first filling me up, then nearly leaving me alone. The latter made me clutch him tight, hold him close, grasp him in the depths of myself, and consider never letting him go.

  “Look at me,” he ordered.

  I didn’t want to. If I didn’t see his face, he wasn’t a man, or a beast, he was a ride, albeit a damn good one.

  Disgusted with my thoughts, I again did as he asked, meeting his gaze, seeing myself. Who was that woman? Could she be me?

  “You don’t think of him when I’m inside you.”

  I said nothing, not even when he arched his back and touched me more deeply than ever before.

  “Say it,” he insisted. “Say it, or I won’t make you come.”

  Even if I could have spoken, I didn’t know what he wanted. He stopped moving—a little too late.

  The release began so small, so far away and yet so large, so near, I wasn’t sure if the spasms were him at first or me. Didn’t matter, because both of us were rocking together, coming apart.

  I collapsed on his chest; he ran his hand up my back. The world returned, and he was still inside me. I was draped all over him. Uncertain, almost childlike, he began to play with the fleur-de-lis chain at my waist.

  “What did you want me to say?” I asked.

  “My name.”

  I lifted my head, shifted my body, but kept our legs tangled together. “Why?”

  “You said ‘Simon’ the last time you were in my bed.”

  I flinched at the sound of my husband’s name while my body still tingled from another man. I didn’t want to talk about Simon. Not now, not ever, and definitely not here and not with him.

  “I was asleep. It isn’t as if I called you Simon while you were doing me.”

  This time he flinched, and I got worried. Was he expecting more than I could ever give? He didn’t seem the type. Then again, what type was he?

  “I’m sorry, Adam.” I rolled onto my back so we were no longer touching. “I wouldn’t like it if you said another woman’s name, either. Even though...” I paused, uncertain what to say.

  “Even though there’s nothing between us but this?”

  I turned my head; our noses nearly brushed. “Yes.”

  For just an instant I wondered if it could be more. If I could love another man the way I’d loved Simon. If I could love this man.

  “I wish I could love you,” he whispered.

  Was he reading my thoughts? Mirroring them? And speaking of mirrors...

  “You don’t have any,” I blurted.

  Confusion flickered over his face. “Love?”

  “Mirrors.”

  The confusion fled, replaced by wariness, just before the stoic mask returned. He’d shut me out as if he had something to hide.

  “I don’t like mirrors, cher."

  “Because?”

  He sat up, presented me with his back. “What you want me to say? That I can’t see my reflection? Or that I don’t want to?”

  I sat up, too, but turned toward him. Something was going on here; I just couldn’t figure out what.

  “There are things I’ve done,” he said softly. “Things you couldn’t imagine.”

  Was he talking about the army? Or something else? “What did you do?”

  He stood, muscles rippling in his back, his legs, his arms. “More than I can ever say.”

  “What was your job in the army? Detective Sullivan couldn’t access your file.”

  “My life then is dead. I’m here now, and I’ll never be free.” He spun around, putting his hands on the bed, leaning over me, crowding into my space. “I’m not the man for you.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t love you.”

  “I can’t love you."

  “Don’t ask me to.”

  “I didn’t.” My voice was clipped, my back tense to the point of aching.

  “Just so we’re clear.”

  “Crystal.”

  His lips twitched. “What you so mad about, cher? I’m just gettin’ things out in the open. No hard feelings later that way.”

  “Fine with me,” I said, but my back remained stiffer than a scrub brush bristle.

  He sank onto the bed, rubbed a big hand over my shoulders. “Shh,” he whispered, pulling me into his arms. “We both want the same thing. While you’re here, we’ll be together. When you go, we won’t be.”

  “Okay.”

  “Because you will go.”

  “Yes.”

  Especially since he hadn’t asked me to stay.

  Chapter 27

  Deesse de la lune.

  The words whispered through my mind. I’d heard them before. Now I heard them in Adam’s voice.

  I fought the heavy veil of sleep, tried to surface, to see. Who was speaking? What had they said and why?

  Bursting awake as if coming from the depths of a rolling ocean and into a silent night, I found myself alone. I glanced toward the window, but nothing was there.

  I was so sick of dreams.

  The room was dark; the moon had disappeared and the sun hadn’t yet risen. A secret, lonely hour, which wasn’t night or day or even dawn.

  The front door closed. Before I even knew what I was doing, I jumped out of bed and pulled on my clothes. Or what was left of them. My tank top was shredded, so I helped myself to one of Adam’s, but my breasts tumbled out the armholes, since he’d shredded my bra while he was at it.

  What had been incredibly sexy last night was an annoyance now. I mumbled curses as I found a T-shirt that might have been white once but was presently kind of gray, and tugged it over my head. A quick glance out the window revealed Adam slipping through the shadows and into the tall grass.

  This was his place. Where was he going?

  Time to find out. I raced through the house and out the front door.

  Did I actually believe I’d be able to follow him through the swamp without his knowing I was there? He’d lived here all his life, and while I’d spent a lot of time in some very odd places, I wasn’t exactly the invisible woman. Nevertheless, I had to try.

  Head down, he barely looked where he was going as he meandered through the weeds and the standing water. Was he thinking of me? Or the us that could never be? What about the us that might be? Did I dare tell him I wanted to try for more, or would that scare him off for good?

  Considering I’d never woken in the daylight with him by my side, no matter what we’d shared in the night, scaring him off wasn’t hard. Why worry about it now?

  Dawn broke, spilling muted sunshine across the land. There was a chill to the morning, but soon the heat would rise. Ahead tires roared across pavement; a horn tooted. I glanced around, uncertain where I was.

  Adam climbed an embankment, then crossed a highway I didn’t recognize. On the opposite side lay a trailer park. I crept forward, catching sight of him just as he opened the door on one of the mobile homes and went inside. Was this where he spent his days? Not in a coffin or a grave or a lair but a trailer park? I hadn’t seen that coming.

  I left the cool shadows of the swamp, slipping and sliding up the embankment, then waiting for a semi truck to pass before I scooted across the two-lane highway. Expecting the trailer park to be run-down, kind of slummy, I was surprised to find neat plots of grass and flowers planted around the bases of most of the mobile homes. Each was well kept, clean, even shiny. Tricycles, Big Wheels, Flintstone cars resided in nearly every driveway. Where Adam had dis
appeared, they had one of each.

  Who lived here? I had a very bad feeling I wasn’t going to like the answer.

  Tempted to bang on the door, I refrained. Just past six in the morning, I didn’t want to be rude. So I slunk around the side and peeked in the window. I didn’t mind being criminal.

  Cartoons spilled across the TV screen. A little boy of perhaps four or five stared at the square yellow blob with a face, legs, and hands that appeared to be dancing under the sea.

  I craned my neck. A young African-American woman stood in the kitchen, pouring cereal into a bowl. Her hair had been left natural, forming a short, tight, attractive Afro around her pretty face. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, maybe twenty.

  I returned my attention to the child—dark hair, long and shaggy, his skin kissed by the sun. I couldn’t see his eyes. He could be hers.

  Hers and—

  The young woman’s head came up as Adam appeared, his hair slicked back from his face, a towel around his neck. Chest bare, he now wore jeans instead of slacks.

  “Daddy!” the child screeched, and launched himself into Adam’s arms.

  I didn’t realize I’d stopped breathing until black dots shimmied in front of my eyes. I sucked in air, let it out again. I should sit down, put my head between my legs, or maybe just pound it against the cement. But I couldn’t tear my gaze from Adam and his son.

  The child clung to Adam like a monkey, arms tight around his neck, legs clutching his waist and Adam rubbed his cheek against the boy’s hair. The love on his face caused a tiny sob to escape.

  Adam looked up, and I ducked so fast I got dizzy again. I crouched below the window, breathing as shallowly as I dared, listening for the creak of a door, but nothing happened. So I sat on the ground, dangled my head between my knees.

  I should get out of here. Someone, if not Adam or the little woman, was going to discover me dallying in the patch of grass beneath their living room window and wonder what kind of psycho they were dealing with.

  He’d been angry when he thought I was married and screwing him. What was his excuse?

  “Maybe they aren’t married.” Which was no excuse.